“Would you like to see her,” whispered her mother, as he rose to go? “Yes.” She lighted a candle and led the way upstairs. Janey had died in her own room. At the door he took the candle from Mrs. Brewster. “I must go in alone.” He passed into the chamber and closed the door, on the bed laid out in a white robe, lay all that remained of Janey Brewster. Pale, still, pure, her face was wonderfully like what it had been in life, and a calm smile rested upon it, but Charles wished to be alone. Mrs. Brewster stood outside, leaning against the opposite wall, weeping silently, the glimmer from the hall lamp below faintly lighting the corridor, and she fancied that a sound of choking struck upon her ears, and she pulled around her a small black shawl that she wore, for grief had made her chilly, and wept the faster. He came out by and by, calm and quiet as ever, he did not see Mrs. Brewster standing there in the dimly lighted hall, and went straight down, carrying the candle. Mrs. Brewster caught up with him at Mary Ann’s room, and took the candle from him. “She looks very peaceful, does she not?” was her whisper. “She could not look otherwise.” He went on down alone, intending to let himself out, but Eliza had heard his steps and was waiting at the door. “Good night Eliza,” he said, as he passed her. The girl did not answer, she slipped out into the yard after him. “Oh, sir, and didn’t you hear of it?” she whispered. “No.” “If anybody was ever gone away to be an angel, sir, its that sweet young lady, sir,” said Eliza, letting her tears and sobs come forth as they would, “She was just one here and she has gone to her own fit place.” “Yes, that is so.” “You should have been in this house throughout the whole of the illness to have seen the difference between them, sir. Nobody would believe it; Miss Brewster angry and snappish, and not caring who suffered or who was sick, or who toiled, so that she was served, Miss Janey lying like a tender lamb, patient and meek, thankful for all that was done for her. It does seem hard, sir, that we should lose her forever.” “Not forever, Eliza,” he answered. “And that is true, too; but sir, the worst is, one can’t think of that sort of consolation just when one’s troubles are the freshest. Good night, to you, sir.” Charles Taylor walked on, leaving the high road for a less frequented one; he went along, musing in the depth of his great grief; there was no repining. He was one to trace the finger of God in all things. A more entire trust in God it was, perhaps, impossible for any one to feel than was felt by Charles Taylor; it was what he lived under. He could not see why Janey should have been taken, why this great sorrow should fall upon him, but that it must be for the best he implicitly believed--the best, for God had done it. How he was to live on without her he did not know. How he could support the lively anguish of the future he did not care to think. All his hopes in this life gone, all his plans, his projects